


iteration

by varooooom



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amnesia, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, actual angel sam wilson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 11:29:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2506166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/varooooom/pseuds/varooooom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky forgets when he sleeps, so he stops sleeping. This goes as well as can be expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	iteration

**Author's Note:**

> Someone on tumblr wanted a 50 First Dates AU and I thought that was super cute, how can I make it depressing? The answer was this fic. It's a different style of writing for me, sort of, because Bucky is repeating basic facts to himself in an effort to remember them, so it's stylistically stilted. I promise this is on purpose and not because I've ended my long-term love affair with eighteen word sentences. This tl;dr is forever.
> 
> Thanks as always to [remuke](http://archiveofourown.org/users/remuke/pseuds/remuke) for helping me claw my way through writer's block by [telling me how much you hate me](http://i.imgur.com/7PqPyaV.png). You're the worst. ♥

"Wanna tell me why you haven't been sleeping lately?"

This man is Sam Wilson. He is Steve's friend. He has wings, but he isn't an angel. He speaks softly and patiently and the question isn't demanding, it's genuinely asking if he wants to tell him. 

Sam is kind. He tried different variations of his name until he found one he could at least acknowledge, even if he still doesn't identify with 'B'. ( It's better than James because he is no one's son, and it's better than Barnes because he isn't a soldier, and it's better than Bucky because he isn't Bucky he can't be Bucky he doesn't know - )

Sam always greets him with ' _Hey, B_ ,' or some variation thereof, like he's reminding him. It helps. He doesn't remember him saying it today, but he must have, because Sam's in the room that Steve calls his and he's talking to him and he must have, because he always does. He doesn't remember though, and that's -

He doesn't answer. Sam doesn't demand a response or hit him or tell him why he should be sleeping, because Sam is kind. He is Steve's friend and he has wings. He's not an angel, though. ( He asked, once, and he remembers the answer was 'no'. )

Sam sits down slowly, close enough to share space with him, but far enough to give him his own if he needs it. He doesn't tense. It's progress.

"Steve's worried. He's always worried, y'know, I think the serum's the only thing keeping him from a bad case of early onset wrinkles." 

Sam smiles, because he's joking and he likes to smile. He only stares back, and Sam doesn't berate him for that either. He does exhale softly, though, and he doesn't know what that means but they all do it, sometimes. He thinks he might disappoint them. That bothers him. He doesn't want to disappoint them. This man is Sam Wilson. He's Steve's friend.

"Nat's worried too, even if she won't say it out loud," he says with a friendly smirk that fades into something softer and patient and genuine a second later. "I'm not, 'cause I think you know what you're doing." 

He doesn't. Sam knows. Sam is kind.

"Might help if we knew too, though, just so we're all on the same page and Steve can stop fussing. You could talk to him, if you wanted to."

They're all suggestions, not commands, never commands. Sam has wings, but he's not an angel. 

He keeps staring and doesn't respond. Sam smiles again, fainter this time, and starts talking about his day, making easy one-sided conversation.

He listens. This man is Sam Wilson. He's Steve's friend.

He isn't sleeping.

* * *

That night, Steve asks him what he wants for dinner. This man is Steve Rogers ( not Stevie, but he hears that name too, in his head when he isn't sleeping ). He used to be small and now he's big. He has a shield and he protects people. He is his friend.

Was his friend. Was his mission. Was his captain his brother his target his -

Steve is kind. He is also sad. His smile is happy but his eyes are sad and he doesn't know how that can be, how Steve can feel two things at once when he's still trying to feel anything at all. Living is complicated.

He doesn't answer. Steve doesn't demand an answer or hit him or tell him why he should be eating, because Steve is kind and he only hits him when he wakes up with metal fingers wrapped around his throat. ( He looks saddest, then, when he's covered in blood and not all of it is his and his smiles aren't happy when he says ' _it's okay, Buck, it's me, you're okay_ '. )

It hasn't happened in four days. He knows because he's been counting and he remembers. Four days.

Steve dries his hands on a towel used for dishes and joins him at the table used for dinner. He knows this is where they eat and this is the time they eat, so he sits and waits and watches Steve watching him. The exhale never comes, but he thinks maybe he's disappointed him anyway, because neither of them is eating and Steve is patient. He is kind.

His eyes are sad. "We could make that pasta you liked last week again." 

_Four days_. His fingers curl slightly, metal scratching thin grooves into wood that's been replaced ( he doesn't know how many times, only that it's been replaced ), because he doesn't know and he doesn't remember. Last week is so far away. He tried, but it's only been four days. He's _trying_.

Steve notices his hand, and he used to be big, but now he's small. He has a shield and it isn't close by. He smiles, misinterprets, "Or we can try something new. There are a lot of recipes in the book Pepper gave us. Do you wanna pick one out?"

Pepper is - Pepper is a - it's only been four days. His chest feels tight, even though he's taking big, heaving breaths, and there's a buzzing in the back of his mind. A fact he can't pinpoint because it's only been four days and there hasn't been a Pepper, there hasn't, he's been trying and he doesn't -

The edge of his vision starts to blur and a voice says ' _Bucky_?' and he's in a different chair, on a different table, in a different time.

The wood cracks. The table will have to be replaced. He doesn't know how many times.

He isn't sleeping. He isn't eating tonight, either.

* * *

He doesn't make it to five days.

* * *

The floorboards in the apartment that belongs to Steve creak, but he doesn't hear her until she's outside the room that Steve calls his. She doesn't ask for permission to enter, but that's okay, because he doesn't have permission to grant. The door is just a door and the bed is just a bed. She can sit on it if she wants to.

Today, she doesn't.

This woman is Natalia. He doesn't know her last name because you don't need a last name to hold a knife. She is fast and efficient. She learns quickly. She is young but she is older and he doesn't know how that can be. Time is difficult.

She leans against the wall across from him and folds her arms across her chest. She is ... She is confusing. He doesn't understand her and he thinks she likes it that way. Her smile is unkind and her eyes are sharp. She counts bruises and he's on a list somewhere, in her mind.

"You broke the table again," she says plainly, but the words are laced with poison. She is a spider. She spins webs. "And a few walls from the looks of it. Steve says he's gotten really good at home repairs."

It's an accusation, or a reminder. He can't tell the difference. It doesn't help. He hasn't left the room that Steve calls his and he doesn't know what's outside. It's been -

He doesn't know how long it's been. He tried counting. He lost track. Time is difficult.

He feels his brows furrow and watches his gaze drop, hears heels clicking on the floorboards that creak. She is fast and efficient. You don't need a last name to hold a knife.

Her hands are in plain sight: empty. "You have to fight it, Barnes. You can't let it consume you." She speaks softly and patiently, and the suggestion isn't a command but it is insistent. There's something in her voice he can't identify as worry. She is confusing.

He was trying. He _is_ trying. But he is so very, very tired. 

She is a spider. She is young and she is Nata - Nata -

"I know it's hard," she says. Her eyes are soft and she isn't smiling anymore. Her hands are empty. "Believe me, I know. But this is killing both of you."

Natalia. This woman is Natalia. The room is red and his knuckles are busted but only on one hand. They both bunch into fists and she still doesn't hesitate to put a hand around his wrist, flesh trapping metal. His chest feels tight but his breathing is normal. She spins webs. How long has it been?

"We want to help you," her eyes are sharp, steel, a knife in empty hands. She is young, and he is older. Time means nothing to a machine. "But you have to let us help you."

He doesn't say anything and the floorboards don't creak when she leaves. 

He falls asleep.

* * *

The Winter Soldier wakes up in a room he doesn't recognize and that's not new, but there are no guns trained on him and no men in white or black with drugs to stop the convulsing. He vomits over the side of the bed, wonders at the fact that he's on a bed at all, that there is no machinery in the small room and that after an hour, no one comes to give him a mission or berate him for making a mess.

This is new. New isn't good.

There are no weapons in the room either and nothing he can turn into one, which is either poor planning or _brilliant_ , but that's okay, because he _is_ a weapon. Doesn't need a gun or a knife ( doesn't need them because there is no threat, there's no one to kill and he doesn't remember ), just clenches his fist and tries the door.

Unlocked. Stranger still, none of the doors in the apartment seem to be locked, but all the rooms in this hallway are empty. The floorboards don't creak as he steps over them, but he can hear voices down the hall, towards the living area. Two of them, distinctly: one is deeper and soothing, the other is hushed and tense. The words '- _know it'll take time, I'm just worried, I don't know how to help_ -' mean nothing and the Soldier doesn't know what to do next, which man he's supposed to report to or kill or -

When he peers around the corner, the owners of the troubled voices come into view, and he stands stock still as he observes. The soothing one comes from a dark skinned man leaning forward on his knees; his eyes seem tired but alert, assessing the man across from him with what can only be prescribed as fear. ( Fear for him, not of him, but the Winter Soldier can't make that distinction. )

The other man is blond and large, fills most of the lounge chair he's sitting in with his frame hunched over as it is. He's - he's sad, that much is clear. Stressed and tired and hasn't slept in several days by the looks of it; there's a bruise that's still fading from one cheek.

Something unpleasant curls in his stomach and he doesn't know why, isn't familiar with the emotion of guilt. He wants to leave, instinct tells him that this is not where he's meant to be, but once the blond man catches his gaze from across the room, he's frozen.

This isn't right. Something isn't right.

"Buck -" the man starts, but the other stops him from standing with a hand on his knee. They exchange a glance the Soldier can't interpret and the blond sinks back into his seat, looking anxiously over to him. The Soldier stares back, keeps staring and doesn't know why, can't figure out why the blue of his eyes bothers him as much as the bruise on his cheek. None of this makes sense.

The dark skinned man stands instead and approaches slowly, hands held at his sides where the Soldier can see them clearly. He keeps his shoulders set and his head high but shows obvious deferment; he's a soldier, his body and his posture screams it, but his eyes are kind. His voice is patient.

"Hey, man," he says, casual and friendly and the Winter Soldier doesn't remember anyone ever addressing him this way. "Do you know who I am?"

He stares, silent, wondering if this man is his handler and doesn't know how to confirm - but it's a directive question, the sort he knows he has to answer, even though it's not a command ( never a command ). Instead of speaking, the Soldier simply shakes his head minutely.

Across the room, the blond man straightens in his seat, and the Soldier's eyes snap to the movement, hands curling instinctively into fists. There's something about him, something important -

"That's all right," the kind one says quickly, stepping closer to interrupt the Soldier's gaze. He offers a hand to shake that isn't met, drops it with a sincere smile anyway. "My name's Sam. Sam Wilson. I'd like to help you, if I can."

Help? The Soldier's brows furrow. He doesn't need help. The hands that follow him with the heavier artillery and the bodies that scatter at his commands aren't help, they're weapons at his disposal during a mission and that's all he ever needs. Sam Wilson is not offering him a weapon, and this is not a -

His eyes slide back to the blond man, who is large but looks small, who watches them intently with fear in his eyes. ( _For_ , not _of_ \- ) The Soldier sees pictures, then, information stored somewhere in his programming. He sees the blond man in a uniform of the American Stars and Stripes, sees a matching shield that he catches and throws and always keeps close. He sees the blond man smiling, or running, or laughing, crying, bloodied on the ground in an alley or on the shore. The information makes no sense to him; it's all extraneous, far more than he ever needs to make a mark, and it feels _important_ in a way nothing ever does.

A mission is a mission. He gets twenty-four hours to put bodies on the ground and he does that, quickly, efficiently, then goes right back into the static. None of it means a goddamn thing.

This man means something. He's - he was -

The Soldier looks back to Sam Wilson with his brows furrowed, and Sam Wilson has his features carefully schooled into neutrality. He is composed, knowledgeable. Maybe he _is_ the Soldier's handler, for all that his patience and his kindness and his offer of help are bizarre and new. He's the closest the Soldier has either way, so - so maybe he can explain, give him a direction that makes sense.

"I know him," he says quietly, carefully. There's a tremble in his voice that speaks of fear and the Soldier doesn't understand that, but the instinct to brace for pain grips him tight and leaves him tense, almost shaking.

But Sam doesn't hit him or tell him why he's wrong, only keeps his gaze kind and patient, unyielding. "How do you know him?"

The words _Level Six_ come to mind and he says, "He got sick, when it rained," instead. The blond man exhales and it sounds like crying, like misery leaving a body on its last breath; something inside the Soldier crumbles to hear it and before he can think to identify it as sadness, the blond man crosses the room and crushes him into a full-armed embrace.

" _Bucky_ ," he whispers, and the Soldier doesn't know a Bucky, but his fists tighten and he thinks whoever Bucky is, he's a bastard for making this man cry.

* * *

They go back to the room he woke up in and Sam Wilson makes an exaggerated retching noise that makes the blond man laugh faintly. The Winter Soldier doesn't understand the joke, but the blond's eyes don't look so sad anymore and Sam Wilson doesn't beat him before cleaning up the mess beside the bed, so he thinks it must be okay. 

The blond tells him this room belongs to him, that this is his bed and he is allowed to stay in it if he wants to. He says that no one will enter the room without his permission and that if he wants him to leave, he will. The Soldier doesn't respond to that ( what is he supposed to do with permission? it's not his to give ), and the blond smiles, but his eyes seem sad and he doesn't know how that can be. At least he isn't crying.

"Why don't we sit?" he asks, then quickly adds, "If you want to. If that's okay."

He doesn't know how to respond to that either so he sits on the bed that is his and waits. The blond man sighs, seemingly steeling himself before sitting beside him and curling his shoulders in. The Soldier watches the movement curiously, and wonders how his body got so big when it was always so small, wonders how he knows that at all ( and knows better than to ask ). Eventually, the blond man inhales deeply and smiles and is sad.

"So. You remember me?" He doesn't answer, so the blond man purses his lips and tries again. "At least, a little bit. From before."

Before. When he was small and now he is big. He nods his head and the blond man brightens, just a little. He is kind.

"Good. That's - that's real good, Buck. It's a start." There's nothing to say to that, so he doesn't. The blond thinks for a second before seeming to decide on something. "Do you know my name?" A simple question; he shakes his head. "Okay. But you remember me being sick." A nod. "Do you know how long you've been here?"

His eyes trail away from the blue and the bruise for the first time since they entered the room that the blond man calls his, and he looks around it now. None of it is familiar, not even the creaking of the floorboards from when they walked in. The Winter Soldier has never seen this room before tonight, so he looks back to the blond man and answers, "I woke up here."

He should already know that. They stationed him here. Perhaps Sam Wilson did not tell him that the Soldier would be active here. His handlers don't always follow instructions; the thought makes him frown, because he does not want Sam Wilson to be killed. The surprise of wanting anything at all, let alone to preserve a life when all he's been programmed to do is take them, is enough to distract him from the blond man crumpling with what he couldn't have identified as anguish.

"Bucky. You've been here for over two months."

Time means nothing to a machine. The Soldier frowns and says nothing.

"You don't remember anything before waking up here?" A shake of his head. The blond man swears and drags his hand through his hair; this seems strange, and the Soldier says without thinking,

"Watch your mouth, Rogers."

It's awkward and stilted with the gravelly sound of his voice, and both of them are startled into drawing away from each other. Blue eyes go wide and the name ' _Steve_ ' comes unbidden. Steve Rogers. Captain America. He's a Level Six target and he burned after two seconds in the sun and he doesn't like broccoli and he's supposed to be dead. He died and the Winter Soldier was meant to kill him and he is supposed to be dead.

They stare at each other and he doesn't realize he said all of that out loud or that there are tears on his cheeks until Steve says "It's okay, Buck. It's me. You're okay. We're gonna be okay."

He isn't sleeping.

**Author's Note:**

> I may or may not write more to this verse, idk. I have ideas, getting them down is just taking awhile. We'll see!


End file.
